


Live Fast, Die Young

by Saint_Rick_The_Dick



Category: Borderlands (Video Games)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Comedy, Drama, Eventual Smut, F/F, Fluff, Humor, Intrigue, Lesbian Sex, Mystery, Sexual Tension, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Useless Lesbians
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-09
Updated: 2020-01-25
Packaged: 2021-01-25 22:31:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21363724
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saint_Rick_The_Dick/pseuds/Saint_Rick_The_Dick
Summary: A modern Mozara AU.Moserah “Moze” Andreyevna is the adopted daughter of Marcus “Iron Bear” Kincaid, an illegal arms dealer using his collection of casinos to launder money from the sale of guns on the black market. Amara is a Private Investigator hired by Lilith to look into the disappearance of her husband Roland who was working as Marcus’ bodyguard the night he went missing.
Relationships: Amara/Moze (Borderlands)
Comments: 15
Kudos: 50





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Notes about FL4K: For the purposes of this fic they are human, however I have retained their NB status and use they/them pronouns.
> 
> Also I’ve been working on this idea for WEEKS. Seriously I have at least 5 chapters planned out yeesh.

**Casino Mogul Passes Unexpectedly at Age 56**

_Marcus “Iron Bear” Kincaid, the well-known casino proprietor and entrepreneur, died early last Tuesday morning. According to authorities, Kincaid was discovered face down in the living room of his Spring Valley home somewhere between the hours of three and five AM. Emergency personnel were called to the scene, however Kincaid was unresponsive and announced dead shortly thereafter. An autopsy report released by the County Coroner’s Office listed a stroke as the official cause of death, ruling out foul play._

_Kincaid is survived by his adopted daughter, Moserah Andreyevna. As the only known living relative, she will take on the responsibilities of the entrepreneurs multiple casinos and investment properties. Andreyevna has repeatedly refused to comment on her father’s death, issuing a statement requesting privacy during this difficult time. A private service has been scheduled, and is planned to take place within the following week. Andreyevna is expected to attend. _

_The official spokesperson for the Kincaid Estate has asked that all correspondence be directed to their Public Relations Department. Further updates will -_

“Damnit!” 

She’s had enough, and Amara tosses her phone onto the kitchen table. Just her luck; Kincaid dies three weeks after she’s hired to investigate a disappearance with direct ties to the dirtbag. Now she’s gotta figure out her next move. Briefly, she considers contacting Lilith to offer a resignation, but then thinks better of it. The article said something about a funeral service. It also said it wasn’t open to the public, but if she can get in…

Reaching for her phone, she sends a text to the one person who might be able to help.

With FL4K, ‘a moment’ can mean ten minutes or ten hours, so rather than sit and wait she goes to pour herself another cup of coffee. 

Though small, her kitchen is clean and orderly; a reflection of Amara’s fastidious nature. Early morning sunlight filters in through the window above the sink, paints the space in alternating shades of white and gold. Amara doesn’t bother with cream or sugar - she’s always preferred it black - and by the time she returns to the table, the notification light on her phone blinks an impatient blue. 

“That was quick.”

–———–

For the funeral, Amara opted to wear a modest, long-sleeved, dark dress to cover the intricate tattoos on her arms and shoulders. However, overnight, the weather took an unseasonably warm turn, meaning she’s now standing beside a collection of mourners with sweat sliding down her back. She wipes the moisture from beneath her sunglasses, and suddenly FL4K is in her earpiece, chastising in their monotone drawl. 

“Stop that. It distorts the feed." 

If she could, she’d tell them to hush, but uninterested in drawing unnecessary attention Amara holds her tongue. 

To their credit, FL4K was right: she’d driven through the gate without so much as a second glance from security. While making her way with the other funeral goers, she was careful to appear as inconspicuous as possible. Not that she expected anyone to recognize her - Amara’s days of amateur celebrity status were long gone, along with her boxing career - but in these situations it was always best to go unnoticed. 

Waiting is not something she does well, so to occupy herself Amara studies those around her. Three feet away is Rhys Strongfork, CEO of Atlas Resorts, and next to him Katagawa Jr. of Maliwan Luxury Casinos.The pair appear somber, however Amara is almost certain it’s an act fabricated for the benefit of potential onlookers. Marcus had many enemies disguised as friends, and as the owner of the highly successful chain of Pandora branded hotels and casinos, his list of rivals was lengthy. 

“There is an impressive amount of high profile individuals at this funeral.” FL4K again. “Jack Handsome, Mr. Torgue, Moxxi Kincaid… This man had many powerful associates.”

Still unable to reply, Amara recalls her conversations with Lilith. The woman had issued several warnings, painting a portrait of Marcus that was very different from the highly polished image offered up by the media.

FL4K’s voice pulls Amara back to the present. “Here they come.” 

Her head snaps up, and she can see an entourage approaching over the small, grassy rise. It’s lead by a priest, his robes billowing out around him as he walks against the wind. Further down the line are two men dressed in crisp, black blazers, coiled wires trailing from their ears, and following behind them Amara can see another man, this one taller with white hair. Between the three, they’re flanking someone much smaller, but it’s not until the party is standing beside the coffin that Amara finally gets a good look.

It’s a woman. She’s barely over five feet with short, choppy, chestnut hair and a button nose. High cheekbones frame her angular face, though large, dark sunglasses obscure the more delicate details. In contrast with the other women present, she dons a perfectly tailored black suit, the lines complimenting her slim build. To Amara, she looks the way good whiskey tastes: smokey, mysterious and expensive.

When the priest begins his sermon, FL4K fills in the necessary details. “Moserah Hayussinian Yan-lun al-Amir Andreyevna. Prefers the moniker Moze. Kincaid adopted her when she was very young for reasons that remain unclear. Country of birth is listed as the former USSR, but biological parents are unknown. Well educated; holds two business degrees, speaks four languages. And it says here she enjoys kickboxing, marksmanship, and demolition derby. Hm. Interesting choice of hobbies.”

Though it takes a considerable amount of will, Amara manages not to stare. Meanwhile, FL4K continues.

“The man to her right with the white hair and goatee is one Zane Flynt, of the illustrious Flynt Brothers. Freelance security specialist, bodyguard and rumored hitman, he is a recent hire. If I were to guess, he is here to protect Andreyevna. It is possible she feels her life is in danger following her father's sudden death.”

FL4K goes quiet, but the priest does not, and so Amara’s thoughts and eyes wander until both fall squarely on the woman across from her. Moserah - no. Moze. Something about her is fascinating, compelling. Maybe it’s the air of austerity that appears to stand in direct contradiction with - 

Hang on, did she just _smirk_? 

For a second time, the corner of Moze’s mouth quirks up ever so slightly, and now there’s no room for doubt. Amara can’t see it, but she can sense that Moze is looking right at her. Unwilling to blow her cover, Amara drops her eyes, maintains her solemn appearance. Could she get arrested for this? Surely, funeral crashing is no more than a misdemeanor, but considering whose funeral it is the consequences may be far more dire.

After a seemingly endless string of mumbled Latin, the priest finishes, and the coffin begins its slow descent. Moze waits until it’s seated in the earth, grabs a handful of dirt, sprinkles it into the open grave. Silently and without fanfare, she turns and leaves, the security detail following close behind.

Amara is patient, hangs back just long enough to get lost in the sea of bodies. Once the crowd begins to disperse, she makes a quick exit.

She’s in the car, fumbling for her phone when she remembers FL4K is still connected to her earpiece. “FL4K, tell me you caught that!”

“Indeed.” They sound strangely amused. “It appears Miss Andreyevna has taken notice of you.”

And unable to stop herself, Amara grins. _“Good._ I’m going to make sure it happens again.”


	2. Chapter 2

At the height of her short-lived boxing career, Amara spent an inordinately large amount of time in casinos. Low profile matches were typically held in small establishments, but big name’s always landed the luxury resorts. As an aspiring welterweight champion, she considered it her duty to keep up with the constantly shifting landscape of fighters, and thus attended as many bouts as possible. Now, Amara spends more time punching bags than people, and far fewer nights in casinos, but she still remembers the ambience. The cloying smell of smoke, the din of garish slot machines, the sense of lost time; she can’t say she misses any of it.**  
**

For the past eight days, Amara’s been roaming the gambling floor of The Pandora. She always dons her usual attire: worn black boots, frayed jeans, sleeveless shirt. Her weathered leather jacket she slings over the back of her chair. Slotting quarter after quarter, she goes through the motions; pull the lever, press one button, press another. Rinse, wash, repeat. It’s dull, monotonous, but she believes her perpetual presence will catch the attention of the right people.

Eventually, persistence pays off.

She’s just tossed a coin in the machine when a tall man with a familiar shock of white hair slides into the seat on her left. Amara purposefully ignores him when he asks in his lilting Irish accent, “Developing a gambling addiction, eh?”

Issuing a non committal response, Amara pretends to be engaged with the excruciating choice of which digital cards to exchange.

Flynt tries again. “You know, I was once a P.I. meself. But I found the freelance life more profitable than the private sector. Especially if you lack a solid moral compass.”

So they’ve gathered intel. The question now is how well they did their homework. Amara plans to find out.

She turns to Zane with a cynical smile. “Hate to disappoint, but my moral compass is as reliable as my right hook.”

However, he merely shrugs at the veiled threat and gets to his feet. “We’ll see about that one. The Miss upstairs is askin’ for ya. Come with me, please.”

“Do I have a choice?” 

“Not in the slightest!” His cheerful tone belies the gravity of the situation. “I just like being polite. Puts folks at ease. Makes ‘em think I won’t kill ‘em.”

Since she did her research, Amara knows Kincaid’s private offices are located at the top of the hotel tower, above the forty or so odd floors of guest rooms. Meaning, it’s no surprise when Flynt leads her to a bank of elevators and presses the button for the penthouse suite. It also doesn’t surprise her when he spends the two minute ride chattering non-stop about all and sundry. What does surprise her is what she sees when she follows him through the pair of large, double doors at the end of the hall.

No stranger to the luxuries wealth can afford, Amara is still taken aback by the sheer opulence. The room is enormous. At its rear, a series of floor to ceiling windows overlook the valley, allowing sunlight to filter in unobstructed. Designer furnishings are carefully arranged throughout, and rare pieces of art dot the walls. In the center of it all, stands a massive oak desk - several decades old, by the appearance - and it’s the only item which doesn’t truly fit the decor. 

As a whole it’s nearly overwhelming, but it’s who the room contains that interests Amara the most.

Near one of the towering windows is Moze. Gone is the somber, black suit. Instead, she sports a delicate, white, button up blouse and a pair of dark, high-waisted, trousers. The V of her top stands open, revealing a thin, gold chain trailing low between her breasts. Without sunglasses to partially obscure her face, Amara can finally say with utter certainty that Moze is absolutely beautiful.

The pair silently appraise each other, Amara watching Moze’s eyes dance over her face and arms, down her legs. There’s something between the two women - a spark of potential, an unlit match - and Amara can’t help but feel that if they’d met under different circumstances, she’d be in Moze’s bed rather than her office.

Smiling, Moze greets her. “Hey, Tiger.”

_What? _No one’s called Amara ‘Tiger’ since -

“Amara ‘The Tiger’ Partali.” Casually, Moze strolls to the front of the desk, sits on the edge, crosses one leg over the other. “You were once a contender for the title of women’s welterweight boxing champion. Now, you’re a private investigator. Couldn’t find out why you made the switch, just that it happened almost overnight.”

Amara can tell Moze isn’t done speaking, and holds her tongue.

“One thing I do know is why you’ve been hanging around my casino for the past week: Roland Crimson. Lilith hired you to look into his disappearance.”

That’s one question answered. Rather than respond right away, Amara takes a moment to drink in the finer details of her surroundings. How much blood money does it take to build an empire this size? Millions? Probably billions. She can’t forget who she’s dealing with: the daughter of an underworld criminal who worked hard to project a publicly acceptable persona in order to cover up his true nature.

Closing the distance, Amara crosses her arms. “What can you tell me about the night Roland went missing?”

Moze’s response is too nonchalant to be anything other than the truth. “Next to nothing. I wasn’t even in the country.”

Well,_ shit. _There goes that. Of course, Amara still needs to verify - 

“But -” Moze interrupts Amara’s train of thought “ - that doesn’t mean I can’t help you.”

Hang on, she knows this game. “For a price, right?”

“For your services.”

“You want to _hire _me?”

Sighing, Moze motions to a set of plush chairs. “Sit, please. Would you like a drink?” 

But Amara shakes her head; she wants her wits about her for this one.

“Suit yourself.” Moze hops off the desk, visits the wet bar on the far side of the room, and returns with a whiskey, neat. She takes a sip, and the seat across from Amara.

“A stroke didn’t kill my father, that’s just what we told the papers so they’d stop asking questions. Marcus was murdered, and we still don’t know who did it. On top of that, someone tried to murder _me_ two weeks ago.” She pauses to point at Zane. “That’s why Lucky Charms over there is my new BFF.”

Recalling FL4K’s hypothesis, Amara vows to inform them they were right. But, she still has questions. “If you know this for sure, why not go to the police? Or tap into your underground network of informants?”

“Easy: I don’t know who to trust. Unlike them, you’re an outsider, true neutral. You won’t stab me in the back, ‘cause you know if you do the only thing you’ll get is a bullet in the brain.”

Amara can’t help it, chuckles at the casual threat. “If I say no?”

Moze just shrugs. “Then you get to keep chasing dead ends. I’ll find someone else.”

Maybe it’s the no nonsense approach, the way Moze blithely threatened her, or the phrase_ dead ends_, but Amara’s seriously considering the proposal. And really, what does she have to lose? Every lead goes nowhere - probably by design - and if she has any hope of discovering what really happened to Roland, the woman across from her is her best chance.

“Okay.” Amara accepts with a nod. “I need whatever info you’ve already gathered, and a way to get a hold of you. Pouring quarters into slot machines until you notice me isn’t really financially sustainable.”

Amara smiles when Moze laughs at the joke. “Don’t worry, Tiger. I got you covered.” She turns to address Flynt. “Hey Zane, toss it here, would you?

‘It’ is a cell phone, which she passes to Amara. “This a secure line, and my private number’s already in the contacts. Call me. Text me. Day or night, it doesn’t matter. I don’t sleep much.”

Inspecting the phone, Amara hums in appreciation. “Thoughtful. You’ve been planning this.”

Moze doesn’t hesitate. “Since the day I saw you.”

_At the funeral. She saw you at the funeral. _ But Amara keeps that tidbit to herself; they both know it’s true.

“Alright. Send me what you’ve got. I’ll be in touch soon as I find something.” Getting to her feet, Amara holds out her hand.

Moze takes it, and that brief moment of physical connection is all Amara needs to know the silent potential, the unlit match, it’s no longer an unknown. It’s a certainty.

She’s halfway through the door when Moze calls her name. “Amara, one last thing.”

Pausing, Amara looks back to see something unexpected: Moze is _blushing_. 

“I, uh…” She trips over her words, as if deciding whether or not to continue. “I think you look better sleeveless.” 

_Jackpot._

Amara resists the urge to grin. Barely. “I’ll remember that.”

“Good. Later, Tiger.”


	3. Chapter 3

Before Amara’s out of the elevator, her new phone dings.

She’s tempted to send_ I need dinner. 7 work for you?_ but ultimately decides otherwise. Moze isn’t a conquest, she’s a client. Despite the mutual attraction, it’s in Amara’s best interest to keep things on the up and up. 

The message is left on ‘read,’ and Amara heads home. Time to get to work.

—————-

Three days after the initial meeting, Amara’s sifting through the considerable amount of information when she discovers an inconsistency. Lateness of the hour notwithstanding - Moze said to reach out no matter the time - what starts as a purely professional conversation, soon devolves into awkwardly adorable flirting. 

Through such simple exchanges is how Amara learns Moze is a capable, self-assured and slightly terrifying executive. But the minute Amara breaks protocol? Cue the technological equivalent of stuttering.

And whether it’s just harmless flirting, or a precursor to something more, Amara admits she feels the familiar tug of intrigue. How long has it been since she pursued someone out of anything other than boredom? Years have passed since the divorce, and she’s done nothing more than flit from partner to partner. Filling the void with casual sex is fun, but deep down she knows it’s really just a way to dodge emotional investment. Of course, there’s also the source to consider. Moze is the product of a world Amara’s only witnessed. In that sense, she’s a tourist, an outsider gazing through a stained glass window. Sure, the colors are nice, but what’s inside isn’t. 

_Ugh. Don’t waste your time. Focus on the job. _

And yet… Moze’s interest is painfully obvious. At the funeral, it was in her smirk. In the office, it was in her body language. And now? Amara can literally read it on a screen.

She knows this is a dangerous game, one where the deck is stacked against her. So, does she fold? Or does she take a risk?

A buzz alerts her to Moze’s reply. 

_7:30PM. My office. Dinner?_

And Amara sighs. “I never was very good at poker.” 

—————-

Come Tuesday evening, Amara’s back in the penthouse suite, the nighttime landscape of the city lights glittering far below. Dinner, drinks, engaging conversation with a beautiful woman? Under different circumstances, this would be romantic. But after what she just watched, Amara’s not feeling particularly amorous. 

“Again, please.” 

Moze clicks play.

Thanks to the low lighting, the footage is grainy, but unmistakable: two men in identical suits carry an apparently unconscious Roland down a service alley. They struggle slightly at the corner, almost drop him, but then regain their footing and move out of view.

Crossing her arms, Moze leans back in her chair. “Gotta give it to ‘em. They were careful, avoided all our other cameras.” She chuckles. “It took me and Flynt _days_ to find this. Do you have any idea how many dudes pee in that alley? It’s so gross.”

Grossness aside, Amara needs to investigate. Will she find anything? Maybe. Maybe not. But she can’t rule out the possibility. This is the best lead she’s had in a month; she’s not about to let it pass her by.

“The alley, which one is it?”

“It’s behind us. Runs the line between our property and Maliwan’s.”

Amara’s already on the other side of the room and in the process of gathering her things, when Moze interrupts.

“Wait, Tiger. Hang on.”

“Yes?”

“There’s a charity ball next week. Black tie._ Super_ big deal. All the major players are gonna be there. I want you to come with me. You might learn something useful.”

Admittedly, Amara considers it a good idea, but she’s still hesitant. “No one will question when you show up with a strange woman on your arm?”

To which Moze shrugs. “I’m gay; it’s not a secret.”

_No kidding._ “Alright. I’ll go. Send me the details, yeah?”

“Awesome. Should I - do you need a dress?” It’s here Moze blushes. “For the event! I mean.”

Does she think - ? Amara plants a hand on one hip, raises her brow, but is careful to maintain a lighthearted tone. “I’ll have you know I clean up quite nicely!” 

“_No_! I didn’t mean - !” Somehow, Moze’s cheeks turn an even darker shade of pink. “I’m sure you’ll - I _know_ you’ll look amazing. You would look amazing in _anything.”_

“Hmm. I also look amazing in _nothing.”_

There’s that look: the one from last week, the one Moze gave her when Amara walked in the room. Equal parts open interest and guarded lust, Amara’s well acquainted with it. For a moment, she imagines what it would be like to sweep Moze into her arms, kiss her breathless, run a hand under her shirt or over the swell of her ass. Would the other woman melt to her touch? Moan into her mouth when Amara’s fingers found the wet place between her thighs and slipped inside?

Maybe she’ll find out. She’d certainly like to.

Unable to resist the additional tease, Amara winks. “I’ll see you soon.”

—————-

Turns out, accessing the service alley behind a major casino is no simple task. Uncertain if she can sneak past security, Amara’s first idea is to act like a confused hotel guest. Playing dumb is a time honored tradition, one she intends to uphold. But as soon as she attempts to enter anywhere marked EMPLOYEES ONLY, she’s immediately stopped and redirected. It’s why she finally decides to go out and around rather than through. 

As far as alleys go, it’s pretty standard. Overflowing dumpsters dot the passage, along with a collection of wet and rotting cardboard boxes. There’s the occasional can or bottle, a few, ancient newspaper scraps, and the headless, discarded torso of a mannequin. Mindful of the camera - Amara doubts it’s under constant surveillance, but she can’t be sure - she sticks to the shadows. This means there’s little light, and she’s forced to use the illumination from her phone to continue the search. 

_“C’moooonnn.” _

She’s on the verge of admitting defeat when she finally sees something: a small, shiny object at the juncture where Roland was nearly dropped. Rushing forward, she snatches it up, wipes it against her jeans to remove the wet and grime. Inspects it critically to discover it’s a coin, or rather, a chip: the kind you’re awarded in a casino when playing poker or blackjack. Unlike traditional chips, this one is metal. She’s no jeweler, but judging by its heft, Amara’s fairly certain it’s made of solid silver.

“Who the hell distributes_ silver _chips?”

But before she can follow that train of thought much further, two, raised voices grab her attention. No one knows she’s working for Moze or Lilith, and getting caught may result in unwanted delays; it’s best she’s not seen. Ducking into the shadow of the closest dumpster, she crouches to wait.

“You’re an idiot if you think your token is still here! It’s been what, four weeks?”

“I gotta bad memory! Took me this long just to figure out where it might be.”

The first one laughs and it’s loud, cruel, _mocking._ “God Queen’s gonna empty your skull and use it for a cereal bowl! And I get to watch!”

“Hey, shuddup! I’m the one who got the big guy to drink the stuff, not you! You just stood there like a dumb… Like a dumb-head!”

“It’s _‘dumb-dumb’,_ dumb-dumb. Ugh, how did I get stuck with such a stupid partner?”

“And how’d I get stuck with such a mean one? I _hate_ you!”

“Yeah, well feeling’s mutual.”

Throughout this back and forth, Amara maintains her position. Her thighs are burning, aching from the tension, but she’s loathe to blow her cover and risk capture. With a silent wince, she shifts to her knees, prays this ordeal comes to a swift end.

“Shit!” That’s man number two. “It’s… It’s gone! She’s gonna _kill _me!”

“Pfffft. Yeah, if you’re_ lucky._”

“Y-you think she’ll go easy on me? Since I bagged the big guy?”

“Wouldn’t count on it, _dumb-dumb.”_

There’s a wail of abject agony, followed by the shuffling sounds of the men as they take their leave.

Amara is patient, doesn’t reveal herself until she’s sure the pair are gone. Too eager to text, she presses the green call button, holds the phone to her ear, and breaks into a sprint. It only rings once.

“Hey, Tiger. What’s up?”

Thank _fuck_ Moze is punctual. “Are you still at the casino? Because I found something you need to see _right now._”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is now art to accompany this fic! I commissioned the very talented [Nishakadam.](https://nishakadam.tumblr.com/) Link is in the notes at the bottom of the chapter.

Deja vu leaves a funny taste in her mouth so Amara rarely uses the word, but she can’t deny the feeling when she opens the doors of the penthouse suite. **  
**

She eschews a greeting, tosses the silver chip to Moze. “Have you ever seen anything like this?”

With concentration splashed across her delicate features, Moze inspects the token. “This is… Really weird. It’s the same size and thickness as a twenty dollar chip, but there’s no denomination. And what the hell is this symbol on the one side? Maybe Zane - ?”

Which was also Amara’s thought. “He might recognize it. Is he here?”

“He never wanders too far. I’ll shoot him a text.”

Two minutes later, and the security specialist-cum-bodyguard strolls through the door. Moze doesn’t hesitate, flips the coin his way. “Any ideas? We’re stumped.”

He studies it silently, then sighs; it’s a heavy sound, one that makes Amara frown. “I may, but I’ll need to do some research. Make a call or two. Amara?”

“Yes?”

“I’m supposin’ you found this?”

“I did. In the service alley where Roland was carried off.”

Nodding, Zane tucks the chip into his pocket. “If this is what I think it is, you’re gonna wanna be careful where you poke yer nose from now on. We can’t let them know we know.”

Confusion writes itself in the furrow of Amara’s brow. “I’m sorry, _‘them?’_” 

“Aye. _Them_. In the meantime, watch your back - “ he points at Moze “ - and I’ll watch hers.”

——-

Days pass with no word from Flynt. To avoid stagnation, Amara keeps to her routine. Gym, work, errands; the usual. She places a call to Lilith to keep her current, but is careful to leave out the part about the mystery chip. Zane didn’t say it out loud, but he didn’t have to: the fewer people who know about that thing the better. What’s that old idiom? Loose lips sink ships. And it’s beginning to look like they’re on board the Titanic.

Finally, on the evening before the charity event, she gets a text.

She picks up after one ring. “Tell me you’ve got good news.”

“Well, that depends on your definition of ‘good.’”

“Fair enough.”

Wherever he is, it’s noisy. Amara can hear shouting, or maybe cheering. She’s tempted to question his choice of locale, but reconsiders. No doubt, this is by design; he’s less likely to be overheard while surrounded by a group of rowdy bar patrons.

“So, me hunch was right. That shiny, silver bauble is what’s known as a Token of Appreciation. They’re given out as a kind of payment for a job well done. The one you found is from a newer organization, run by a couple of up and comers: Tyreen and Troy Calypso, AKA The Calypso Twins. They call their lackeys Children. Creepy, eh?”

“Eugh. Yeah. _Really _creepy.”

“Oh, but it gets better! Orrrr maybe worse.”

Amara can’t help her chuckle. “Depending on my definition?”

“Aye! There’s hope fer ya yet.” He pauses, and Amara hears him swallow something. Beer, probably. “Just so happens, this pair of young thugs have been killin’ their way through the ranks for some time. If I was a bettin’ man - and I am - I’d say Marcus is just one o’ many. And he won’t be the last.”

Which makes Moze their next target. 

This puts Amara in a rather precarious position. Since Roland was Kincaid’s top bodyguard, it makes sense the Calypsos took him out knowing he was a threat. After all, the man was well trained, well paid and loyal to his boss. Going to the police with what she’s gathered is an option, but aside from the video - which Moze is unlikely to contribute willingly - Amara has almost no solid evidence the twins are responsible. At the same time, dangling Moze in front of the Calypsos in the hopes of learning more doesn’t sit well with her, either.

“Still there, Tiger?”

Zane’s voice snaps her back from her thoughts. “Yes, sorry. Just - “

“Tryin’ to wrap yer head around it?”

“Exactly.”

“Understandable. Folks like the Calypsos, they’re not the most respectable of individuals. And they certainly don’t give a shite about who they burn down on their way to the top.”

Amara sighs, rests her forehead in the palm of her free hand. The adrenaline of discovery has worn off, and she’s hit with a wave of exhaustion. “So, what now? It’s obvious these twins had something to do with Roland’s disappearance _and_ Marcus’ death, but I get the feeling it’s in our best interest to play dumb.”

“Correctomundo. Also - “ and here Zane’s voice drops, takes on a tone Amara doesn’t recognize - “I’m pretty sure this goes a bit deeper than those two knuckleheads. They’re all smoke and mirrors. Meanin’, they may be the Wizard… But they’re not Oz himself.”

Though he can’t see her, Amara nods. “I get what you mean.”

“Anyway!” Zane’s usual cheerfulness returns full throttle. “Make sure you attend that event with the Miss tomorrow. She’s been lookin’ forward to it all week! And I’ve grown rather fond of watchin’ you two make googly eyes at each other. Till then!”

And with that, he’s gone.

Despite the lateness of the hour, Amara finds she’s no longer tired, and she gets up from her place on the couch, heads to the kitchen. While going through the motions to make tea, her mind whirs.

When she took this job, she fully expected to encounter the _un_expected, but now that she’s waist deep in the refuse of the criminal underworld she’s wondering how much further the rabbit hole goes. Though compelling - the coin, the video, the conversation with Zane - much of the evidence is circumstantial. Plus, without a text log (which was smart on Zane’s behalf: no log equals no hard proof) the whole thing turns into a he said, she said. And Amara knows how much the police_ love_ those.

Still, there may be someone else who can help.

She won’t hear anything tonight; it’s already creeping up on 12 and FL4K’s ‘research’ can take hours. Best she gets some rest. After depositing the half-empty mug in the sink, Amara heads to bed hoping for dreamless sleep, yet knowing it will be anything but.

——–

The next morning brings no news from FL4K (which is slightly disappointing, but not surprising) and a text from Moze.

Amara smiles. Spending more time with Moze shouldn’t be an enticing prospect, but it _is_, damnit. It’s also a welcome distraction from her current moral dilemma.

_Easy, Tiger. This one is technically your boss._ But she can’t help it. Over time, her attraction to Moze has only grown. The woman is smart, beautiful, capable and - aside from when Amara flirts with her - entirely unflappable. Maybe that’s why it’s so fun to poke the proverbial bear; Moze’s reactions are always entertaining.

And Amara would be lying if she said she didn’t like it, too.

————

Moze is exceedingly punctual, so when Amara arrives at the Pandora only to be told Miss Andreyevna is running late, she’s a little surprised. True to her word, Amara cleaned up nicely: opting for a long, sleeveless, side-slit purple dress, and a pair of sensible, black heels. Extra care was taken with her make-up, and her hair she pulled up into a loose chignon.

She’s sipping offered champagne (normally she’d decline, but what the hell) when the doors to the suite fly open and Moze comes charging through. _“_Ugh, Amara, I am _so_ sorry. Got stuck dealing with some _dumbass _who…”

That’s as far as she gets. Amara watches Moze - watches those hazel eyes flow across her face, over her bare shoulders, past her breasts, beyond her waist to her legs, and back up again. 

“Wow,” Moze finally finds her words. “You’re fucking _beautiful.” _

Amara raises her glass in Moze’s direction. “You’re not so bad yourself.”

Which isn’t a lie. Instead of black, the suit is smokey grey with a faint pinstripe pattern. A pewter tie and waistcoat provide pleasant contrast, and the entire thing fits Moze perfectly. But then again, Amara would be shocked if it didn’t.

Downing the remains of her champagne, Amara sets the glass aside. “Shall we?”

“You’re damn right we shall.”

And_ oh_ something’s there tonight, something beneath her words and actions. It’s painted in her mind, in the very sway of her hips when she walks across the room. Maybe it’s how Moze is staring at her - with evident desire - or maybe it’s the fact she’s tired of keeping herself in check when it comes to the thing she really wants.

There was already a height discrepancy between the two women; the heels merely exaggerate it. Tucking a finger under Moze’s chin, Amara tilts her head up until they lock eyes, and smiles at what she finds there. “Then let’s go crash a party.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Then let's go crash a party.](https://nishakadam.tumblr.com/post/190674088734/second-valentines-commission-for-thauma-purrge)


End file.
